Page 100 of Jack

She leaned in. “Tommy. My name is Harper Malone. I’m . . . a friend . . . of . . . well, Penelope Pepper. Can we talk?”

Silence.

More silence.

Then a buzz and she pushed inside. The place smelled tired. Orange-and-brown patterned carpet, no elevator, open stairs in the middle of the landing, and past that, a hallway toward the units. Sarah had lived on the ground floor, Tommy beside her, and now Harper found his apartment, gold number three on the door.

It opened before she knocked.

Tommy Fadden had seen better years, a look in his eyes that suggested bad choices and even worse consequences. Early thirties, maybe, wearing a pair of faded jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt, barefoot, a faded tat on his neck, bald, unshaven. His gaze darted down the hall, back to her.

“Harper?”

“Can I come in?”

He drew in a breath, then opened the door further.

What are you doing?But she’d told Boo where she was going, and really, Penelope had already interviewed him.

And it was daytime.

Aw,her gut fisted as he shut the door.

A bachelor’s apartment. Flatscreen on the wall with cords hanging down, leading to some sort of gaming controller. Tweed sofa, a scuffed coffee table hosting a can of Red Bull. A single bar stool sat next to a counter that overlooked a tiny kitchen. A Styrofoam container with the wordsThe Anchorsat on the counter, half open, with the remains of tangy chicken wings. The smell still hung in the air.

He offered her the sofa.

“I won’t bother you for long.” She remained standing.

He folded his arms and sank onto the stool. The man clearly worked out. “I already told Penelope everything I know. She didn’t use half of it, though.”

“Really.”

“It wasn’t the first time Sarah’s place was broken into. Her back French door was jimmied a couple weeks earlier and her laptop taken.”

Maybe she should sit down.

“I work late shift down at the Anchor bar.”

“I’ve heard of it.” Rough, down in the warehouse district. Maybe he was the bouncer?—

“I’m a bartender, so I have to close. She had a cat, and Sarah was gone—one of her overnight real-estate events with her ex. Never liked him.”

“Walsh.”

“Yeah. A big real-estate developer. Hotshot.”

“The podcast said he was her boss.”

“She was a freelancer, so not technically, but . . .”

Maybe she’d misjudged him, the way his jaw tightened.Not a thug. A protector.

“That night of the . . . murder. What did you see?”

Tommy looked back at her, his eyes a little reddened. “Same thing I did before. I’d gotten home, was going over to feed her cat when I saw her French door hanging open. I thought maybe she’d forgotten to lock it, so I went in.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Got beaned. Not sure with what—could have been the laptop. But it knocked me over long enough for the guy to get away. Big guy, built. Bigger than me.”

“Really? That’s a big help.”

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